A Scandal In London
by Eclectic Butterfly
Summary: A note delivered to 221B Baker Street pulls Sherlock and John into a murder investigation involving one Irene Adler.
1. Part 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own _Sherlock. _If I did, there would not have been only three episodes in the first series.**

**2-28-11 A/N: As my wonderful reviewer suggested, I have now divided _A Scandel In London_ into 4 parts for easier reading. Enjoy!**

* * *

All was quiet in the dark office. A security guard walked past the office, shinning the torch's light into the office through the glass walls. Satisfied, the guard then moved on. Moments later, one of the tiles moved to the side in the office ceiling, creating a dark opening.

A length thin rope was tossed down. A pair of legs appeared through the hole first, followed by the rest of the body. The slim figure slowly climbed down. Landing silently, the intruder crept across the office to the painting on the wall. Looking up at it, the figure shook her head and moved to the desk.

Cautiously, the woman opened a drawer and randomly selected a file. She slipped it into her bag. When she removed her hand from the bag, she held a chess piece, a white queen, which she placed on the desk. A door opened and closed nearby. Quickly, the intruder moved to the opening in the ceiling. Grabbing onto the rope, she pulled herself up. The rope was drawn back up and the tile was replaced. Only seconds later, a different guard walked past. He shone his light in and then moved on.

* * *

"We are out of everything," John Watson declared from the kitchen of the flat. He glanced out into the living area where Sherlock Holmes was staring up at the ceiling intently. Shaking his head, John took one more glance at the kitchen and then headed for the door. "All right. I'll go to the grocery and get some food, then."

"At least wait until Mrs. Hudson goes back down," Sherlock told him without looking over. "You know she hates to see you rushing about, and it's rude to leave without saying hello."

There was a light knock on the door before John could say anything. "Knock, knock," Mrs. Hudson said, opening the door and poking her head in. "Sherlock, a letter's just come for you."

Nodding in an absent way, Sherlock held his hand out. Looking between him and Mrs. Hudson, John walked to their kindly land lady and took the envelope. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he said. He walked across the room and slapped it down onto his flat mate's hand.

Without comment, Sherlock began to open it. John got his coat from the closet and put it on. "How is that lovely young woman you brought over?" Mrs. Hudson asked the former soldier. "I haven't seen her around here since then. Will you be having her for dinner soon?"

"Only when we can manage to keep the cupboards stocked," John told her.

Sherlock rolled off the couch onto his feet. "See what you make of that," he said, shoving the paper into John's hand before disappearing into his bedroom.

Puzzled, John held the paper up and read the hand written words:

_"Meet me at Centre Park at 6 o'clock tonight at the park bench in the middle of the paths. I wish to consult you on an extremely important matter. I have read of your success at solving unusual crimes and have heard of your discretion. I look forward to the assistance you will be able to give me."_

Frowning, John looked back up as Sherlock returned, dressed to go out. "So, you're just going to go meet this stranger?"

"We are, yes," Sherlock responded, getting his coat and scarf.

"We?"

Surprised, Sherlock looked over at him. "You were going out anyway," he pointed out, wrapping his scarf around his neck. "This should be very interesting."

"As long as we get some groceries before we come back," John responded.

"Yes, of course," Sherlock said, slipping past Mrs. Hudson out the door.

* * *

On the opposite side of Baker Street, a motorbike was parked against the curb. The visor of her helmet down, the woman leaning against the bike watched Sherlock and John exit 221B and hail a cab. Waiting until the cab had turned the corner, the woman took off the helmet and crossed the street.

She considered the buzzer, but pulled a small package of tools from her pocket. Standing in way that anyone who saw her would think she was simply struggling with a key, the black haired woman picked the lock open. She slipped silently into the building, closing the door behind her.

The intruder crept up the stairs without making a sound. She pushed the door of the flat open and shook her head. Unwinding her scarf, she explored the flat until she finally ended up next to the couch. Pushing aside some papers, she took a seat and made herself comfortable.

Her gray eyes landed on the note on the table. Frowning, she picked it up and read it. Scowling, she searched through the papers for a blank sheet. Finding an ink pen, she quickly scrawled a note of her own. She put both notes on top of the laptop and set the computer on the table.

Glancing at her watch, she stood up and headed for the door. She paused and a grin appeared. Turning back, she picked something up and left the flat. As she stepped off the stairs, she placed a white queen on the balustrade. Smirking, she went out the door, being careful to close it behind her.

* * *

It was slowly growing dark and the street lamps were coming on. As Sherlock and john approached the middle of the park, they saw a well dressed man standing next to the bench they were headed for, his face hidden by shadows. The man came forward on seeing them. "Sherlock Holmes?" he asked hopefully.

"I am, and this is my colleague Dr. John Watson," Sherlock said, shaking the man's hand. John nodded in greeting. Sherlock's eyes swept over the man quickly. "You have a dilemma?"

"Yes," the man said, his tone relieved. "You will keep this between us? The scandal that would occur if word of this matter got out...it would have far reaching consequences."

"I am the soul of discretion," Sherlock assured him.

Taking a seat, the man kept his back to the lights. "A certain... photo has been taken from me," he admitted. "I must have it returned to me before a scandal spreads. I can tell you the woman who has it, but all attempts my people have made to retrieve the photo have failed."

"I assume it as a photo of you and a woman," Sherlock asked. The man nodded. "Mr. Johnson, if I am to be of any assistance to you, you will have to tell me everything."

Aghast, Everett Johnson stared up at the consulting detective. "How did you know?"

"The wording of your note was a man's," Sherlock explained succinctly. "But the handwriting was a woman's. Therefore, I concluded you had a secretary write the note. That being the case, you are a man of some importance. This meeting place had to be close to your work, which narrows the field considerably, especially as you travel often. Therefore, you are Mister Everett Johnson manger of Travel International."

"Yes, my secretary knows of the matter," Johnson said. "My office is just down the street. Still, how-?"

Sherlock shook his head. "You have a tan line on your wrist, so you've been in the sun, but not on vacation," he interrupted. He looked at John. "Really, why can no one ever see that fact?" He turned back to Johnson. "Now, shall you tell me how you came to misplace this photo?"

"I didn't misplace it!" Johnson said vehemently. "That woman stole it from me!"

"What woman?" John asked. "The one in the photo with you?"

Johnson shook his head. "We've had some thefts in our company buildings in several of our foreign offices," he explained. "My superiors hired a professional to test our security system. I kept the photo in my office in Cairo and that was what was taken when that woman broke into our office three nights ago."

"And this woman has attempted to blackmail you?" John asked as Sherlock steepled his fingers.

"No," Johnson said earnestly. "But she may not realize what she has yet. I've heard what she's tried in the past. Please, Mister Holmes. I will be ruined if she gives that photo to the reporters. I will pay anything."

"The photo will be returned to you," Sherlock said, turning away. He walked towards the street. Offering the man a shrug, John hurried after his friend. "People can be so idiotic at times. Why keep a photo of him and his mistress?"

"You didn't even ask who took the photo," John pointed out.

"I don't need to ask," Sherlock said, getting into their waiting cab. "The photo will be waiting at his office when he gets back. Now, are you hungry?"

Taken aback, John nodded, and then realized Sherlock wasn't looking at him. "Yes, but what does that have to do with you promising to return the photo?" he asked.

"Nothing, but there's no food at the flat," Sherlock informed him. "I didn't make any such promise. I said it would be returned. That is the end of the matter. I'm in the mood for Chinese." He leaned forward and gave the cabby directions. The way he sat back, John got the feeling he wouldn't get an answers out of the man now.

* * *

The night was cloudy and chilly in and there was a damp fog coming in. "You know, if you'd actually gone out and got some groceries like I asked you, we wouldn't have had to go out for dinner," John said as he and his flat mate approached their home.

"Hmm," Sherlock said, beating John to the door. He paused, his hand on the doorknob. He turned the knob and pushed the door in. "What have we here?"

"What are you talking about?" John asked, trying to look over his friend's shoulder, and failing. He rubbed his hands against the cold. "Can we go inside and solve a crime where it's warm?"  
A deep frown forming on his forehead, Sherlock pushed the door open and stepped inside. "Mrs. Hudson!" he called out. He went to the balustrade and snatched up the small chess piece. "Mrs. Hudson!"

"What's wrong?" John asked, shutting the door.

At the same time, Mrs. Hudson came hurrying from the back. "Whatever is the matter, Sherlock?" she asked.

"Has anyone come while we were gone?" Sherlock asked, his fingers closing tightly around the queen. "Did you leave at all?"

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "Not since the mail came," she told him. "And I've been in the back all this time. Why?"

"Nothing, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said, turning away from her. He started up the stairs, taking two steps at a time.

Puzzled, John hurried after him. By the time he'd reached the second floor, his friend was already tearing into the chaos that made up their shared flat. "What are you looking for?" John asked. He got no answer, so he tried again. "Sherlock, will you tell me what are you doing?"

"Something is missing," Sherlock answered absently.

Astonished, John let out a brief laugh. "How can you know something is missing in this mess?"

"She always takes something," Sherlock answered, sounding oddly aggravated. He tossed papers off the shelves. "It's something important, or she wouldn't have bothered with it."

Frowning, John left the doorway and looked around the flat. "Sherlock, I'm fairly certain any thief that broke in here would see this mess and leave it alone," he commented. He continued to watch his friend with interest. "So you're saying a woman broke into our flat and took something of importance."

"Yes, John!" Sherlock snapped, not looking up. "Have you not been listening?"

Shrugging, John went to the coffee table. Almost immediately, he spotted the two notes. Giving Johnson's note a quick glance, john frowned at the second, not making any sense of it. "Sherlock," John called out. "Were you trying to write new song or it something else?"

Turning around, Sherlock spotted the note and rushed across the room. He swiped it out of John's hands and sat on the couch. He spent a few moments studying the paper. There was a musical staff and notes drawn on the paper. "She thinks she's being clever," he muttered.

"What?" John asked. "I thought you said this woman took something."

"She has, and she left note," Sherlock explained vaguely. He looked up sharply. "My violin! That woman has taken my violin!"

Surprised, John glanced around and didn't see the instrument. "Why would she take your violin?" he asked, giving up on discovering who the woman was.

"To get my attention," Sherlock said, his tone derisive. He stared at the note and crumbled it in his hand. "Let's go, John. We have a violin to recover."

"Where are we going?"

"To a concert."

* * *

Yawning, Everett Johnson poured himself a drink and rose from his chair. He walked to the window and glanced down at the foggy streets. He shook his head and looked down at the photo in his hand. There was a slight creak behind him. Whirling, he dropped his glass and took a startled step back. "Oh, it's you," he said, sounding relief. "What are you doing here?"

A small, dark figure remained silent, standing a few feet away from him. Johnson knelt down to clean up the shattered glass. "The matter is over with now," he said, irritation in his tone.

Still getting no response, the man looked up. There was a flash. Gasping, Johnson clutched at his chest and then fell lifelessly to the floor. Blood began to pool around him as the figure walked to the desk. Placing a small, white chess piece on the desk, the murderer left the office.

* * *

The concert was on the verge of beginning by the time John and Sherlock reached the concert hall. Out in front they were informed that the doors were locked and there were no tickets available anyway. "Miss Adler is expecting us," Sherlock informed him. "She won't like it if we're not in there."

A look of fear crossed the man's face. "Of course, sir," he said, coming out from behind his counter. "Come right this way."

"Why did that man look afraid?" John asked in a low voice as they were escorted through the concert hall. "This Miss Adler is the woman who stole your violin?"

"Yes, now be quiet," Sherlock told him as the usher hastily led them up the stairs.

Their seats were in a small box where there were four seats. One of the seats was already occupied by a woman. Sherlock took the seat next to her and John the one behind his friend. The usher hurried away.

"Irene," Sherlock said.

Without removing her gaze from the stage, the woman put a finger up to her lips. "Hush," she said softly.

To John's surprise, Sherlock fell quiet, closing his eyes as the music began. John found himself yawning and dozing, though his companion was the epitome of concentration. Finally, the orchestra began a violin concerto by Mozart, and a slim woman rose from among the musicians.

As if by cue, Sherlock opened his eyes and sat up straight. The woman, dressed in a long black dress, took up position in the center of the stage and brought the bow up to the violin. Focusing on the woman, all that John could make out was that she was extremely talented as she played.

Even as the last note was being played, the audience burst into applause. The woman made her bow gracefully as encores rang out. Impressed, John joined in as people got to their feet. The conductor carried a bouquet of roses to the violinist. "She's very good," John commented as the whole orchestra bowed.

"She's adequate," Sherlock said. "She's having an affair with the conductor, so it's no surprise that she got the solo."

"How can you possibly know that?" John demanded as the audience began to leave.

"Half the violin section looks jealous," the woman beside Sherlock spoke up first. "As she played, her eyes were on the conductor, and he brought out an enormous bouquet of flowers. He has a ring on his finger; she does not. Conclusion: they are having an affair."

The lights came on giving john a chance to get a good look at the young woman. She was dressed in a formal, dark blue dress. Her hair was black and up in a French twist. Her eyes were a gray similar to Sherlock's and held the same intense intelligence. She seemed small, though there was no conclusive way for John to tell for sure.

"Irene," Sherlock said, turning in his seat to face her. His tone was impatient. "My violin, please."

"And you found yourself a flat mate," the woman continued, back at John. She held out her hand. Though her tone was friendly, John got the feeling she was studying him critically. "John Watson, right? My name's Irene Adler. I'm so glad someone's come along who can put up with Sherlock! Most people just can't stand him."

Surprised, John shook her hand. "Pleased to meet you."

"Irene," Sherlock said, his tone cold. "My violin, if you please."

"Of course, I've been keeping up with the website and your flat mate's blog," Irene continued conversationally. Her voice held a strange accent that John couldn't place. "You are doing well as the world's only consulting detective, aren't you? As you invented it, I wouldn't expect anything but excellence."

"Irene."

Irene Adler frowned at him. "Oh, very well," she said. She reached under her seat and lifted up a violin case. She held it out to him. "Your violin, Sherlock. I return it to you exactly as I took it."

Taking it, Sherlock placed the case on his lap and opened it. He removed his violin. He spent several moments examining the instrument carefully. Irene watched him with an amused smile on her face. "There's a scratch on the back," Sherlock finally said.

"That was there when I took it, and you know that as well as I do," Irene replied, defensively. "You hardly treat it with the care a fine instrument needs."

"Why are you back in London?" he asked, putting the violin back. He straightened and regarded her intently.

"I had a job tonight," Irene responded, her tone evasive. She picked her hand bag up and slung it on her shoulder. "Why? Aren't you happy to see me? As far as I know, I haven't been forbidden from London, yet. Is there any other reason why I shouldn't be here?"

"I can think of a few."

Narrowing her eyes, Irene raised her chin. "Is that resentment in your voice?" she asked, her tone taunting. "If you don't want something taken from you, don't leave it laying around that mess you call a flat! It was by far the easiest place I've broken into."

"Broken into?" John repeated, frowning. "You're a thief?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered even as Irene said, "No!"

John glanced between them. "I test the security systems of big corporations," Irene explained. "I break in and take something to prove it. I return the item in the morning along with recommendations for improvements." She gave a slight shrug. "It manages to keep the boredom at bay."

"Miss Adler."

Recognizing the bored voice, John turned to find Mycroft Holmes' assistant standing in the box's doorway. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, glancing at Irene. The assistant held out her hand. "Mr. Holmes would like his phone returned," the woman requested firmly.

"Ah, so that's why I haven't been bothered by Mycroft these past few hours," Sherlock commented, sounding extremely amused. "You have been busy, Irene."

Tight lipped, Irene pulled a cell phone out of her black bag and held it out. "The empty seat in the box," Sherlock went on as the assistant took the phone and walked away. "You really wanted to make sure we knew you were here, didn't you? I'm sure Mycroft knew it the second you stepped into London."

"Did it even occur to you that I simply wanted to see the two of you while I was in town?" Irene snapped, shrugging her coat on. She stared at Sherlock with a strange mixture of haughtiness and disappointment. "But the Holmes' don't care for such sentimentality, do they? Did you assure Everett Johnson that his picture would be returned?"

Startled, John blinked. Sherlock simply nodded. Irene rose and walked to the door. "You could have just dropped by," John called out. "That's what most people do when they want to see someone."

Pausing, Irene glanced back at him. "How boring it must be for most people," she said, making her tone light and mocking. "Good evening, Dr. Watson."

"The look on Mycroft's face when he realized Irene had taken his phone must been amusing," Sherlock commented, starting for the door.

"I'm a little bit confused," John admitted, following his friend out. The concert hall was now practically empty. Sherlock glanced at him patiently. "She's the one who stole the picture from Everett Johnson, isn't she? You and your brother both know her personally? How?"

"Irene has involved herself in several incidents," Sherlock answered vaguely. "She's trouble, John. Nothing but trouble."

* * *

**A/N: Leave a review! Part 2 should be up soon.**


	2. Part 2

**A/N: Here is Part 2. And I still don't own _Sherlock._**

* * *

The next morning, John yawned as he walked into the living room. He shook his head as she saw his flat mate fast asleep on the couch. John nodded to the woman in the armchair, heading for the kitchen. Pausing in the doorway of the kitchen, John blinked and turned around.

Irene Adler was sitting sideways in the armchair, her legs over one of the arms. She was reading something on John's laptop. "There's tea, or coffee if you prefer that," she said. She was wearing a black sweater with dark blue jeans and a pair of black boots on her feet. "Oh, and I stocked the cupboards for you."

John looked from her to the sleeping Sherlock. "How did you get in here?"

The woman just smiled. Shaking his head, John went and poured himself a cup of tea. Dragging a chair into the living room, he took a seat. Irene finally glanced at him. "You have questions, Dr. Watson," she said, sounding exactly like Sherlock the first time John had met the man. "Ask away."

"All right," John responded, trying to organize his thoughts. "Did you tell Sherlock where you were going to be in the note you left? What kind of code was that?"

"Did you see the note I left?" Irene asked him. John nodded. "Well, I used a musical staff code I invented. One note for every letter. Translated: You know where to find me. I was practically raised on classical music, and London is the only place I have a box I own. I try to get a concert in every time I come back, which Sherlock knows, of course."

Frowning, John nodded as he considered that. "Did you really steal Mycroft's phone? How?"

The woman laughed softly. "As a matter of fact, I did," she told him. "It's easier than it sounds, really."

"Sherlock's never mentioned you before," John informed her when she didn't say anymore on the matter. Irene shrugged in response. "How long have you known him?"

Thoughtfully, Irene swung her feet to the ground and sat properly in the chair. "Oh, we've known each other for many years," she replied. "He and Mycroft haven't changed much, though they haven't gotten along the past few years. He's not a-what is it he's sometimes called- a psychopath."

"The term is sociopath, Irene," Sherlock interrupted, twisting around to face the room. He glared at the woman. "What are you doing in my flat?" He paused. "Oh, Mycroft suspended your passport again, didn't he? Taking his phone out from under his nose was not a well thought out plan if you wanted to leave London quickly."

Reaching down, Irene snatched up a random item-a slipper- and threw it at the man. "Yes, he's suspended my passport," she responded, settling back in the chair. "He won't reinstate it until I apologize. And I am here because I have nowhere else to go."

"Then, go back to your hotel, and wait until he gets distracted by some political problem," Sherlock advised her, sitting up. "Mrs. Hudson doesn't like people sneaking around and picking her locks."

"Why are you in a hurry to get rid of me?" Irene asked placidly. She was watching Sherlock intently, closing the laptop. "Are you expecting company?"

"Yes," Sherlock said even as John replied, "No." John looked at his flat mate in surprise. "We are?"

"Lestrade will be here soon," Sherlock told him. "He tried calling twice last night. There's been a murder, and as usual, he's lost."

"Then, why didn't you go last night?"

Irene rose from her chair. "Well, since I will obviously be in your way, I will take my leave," she said, collecting her coat. "I have a few directors to see. I'll stop by later, Sherlock. I want to talk to you about those messages you've posted on your website."

Ignoring her, Sherlock looked at John in surprise. "I am not at the beck and call of Lestrade," he replied. He reached over and picked up the lap top Irene had set down. "I know you object to running around London at all hours. Besides, Lestrade will appreciate my help much more this way."

Staring at him for a moment longer, Irene shook her head. "Good bye, John," she said. "Just so you know, I put Sherlock's eyeballs at the back of the refrigerator."

Jumping up, John escorted her to the door. Offering a slight smile, Irene went out into the hallway and down the stairs. Closing the door, John turned to face Sherlock. "Well, that was rude," he said. "Will you tell me what you have against Irene Adler? Besides her habit of stealing your things?"

"Ask her; you seem to be on good terms with her," Sherlock told him. There was loud pounding on the door downstairs. "That will be Lestrade."

Moments later, Detective inspector Lestrade was coming into their flat. "I've been trying to reach you for hours," he said, staring accusingly at Sherlock.

"Tell me the details," Sherlock ordered.

"A manager of a travel company was found murdered in his office last night," Lestrade explained bluntly. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "The doors were locked and the security videos show no one entering the office until the security guard went in and found the victim-."  
"Everett Johnson," Sherlock said. John looked quickly from Lestrade to Sherlock. Surprised, Lestrade nodded. "How was he killed?"

"He was shot."

Nodding, Sherlock steepled his fingers and rested the fingertips against his mouth. "You want us to solve the crime?"

"No," Lestrade told him, looking amazed and satisfied to be able to correct Sherlock for once. "We know who killed him. A professional thief who was black mailing him. A woman was seen entering the building. And she left her calling card- a white queen from a chess set- at the scene. No, I need you to find Irene Adler. She's wanted for murder."

"Irene Adler?" John repeated in shock. "You've got to be kidding."

Sherlock shot him a sharp look. "Why can't you find her?" he asked as Lestrade looked curiously at John. "I am not in charge of lost and found. Put Sgt Donovan on it. I'm sure she'll do a fine job."

"We've tried to find her," Lestrade told him. "She checked out of her hotel this morning and a cab took her to the airport. She was supposed to fly to India, but she didn't get on that flight as she was scheduled. No one has seen her since the airport."

Thoughtfully, Sherlock nodded, staring up at the ceiling. Lestrade waited. "Well, Lestrade, I am too busy to help," Sherlock finally said. "Perhaps another time."

Sighing, Lestrade nodded in acceptance. "If you do come across her, you'll let me know?" he requested.

Absently, Sherlock nodded, all of his attention on the computer screen. Shaking his head, Lestrade left the flat. Going to the window, John watched until he saw Lestrade get in the police car. When he turned around, he saw Sherlock walking for the closet. "Where are you going?" John asked.

"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock asked. He slipped his jacket on and wrapped his scarf around his neck. "I have to solve a murder now. I would say we have about four hours before they catch up to Irene."

"Wait," John said, grabbing for his jacket. "How can you be so sure she's innocent?"

Seriously, Sherlock turned to face his partner. "If Irene was going to kill someone, she wouldn't be so obvious as to shoot him," he said, practically. "She's far to smart to do that. No, someone has set her up, and Scotland Yard is too stupid to realize it."

* * *

At the Headquarters of Travel International, Sherlock ducked under the police tape and entered the office. Hesitating for a moment, John glanced around before he followed Sherlock in. "What do you expect to find?" he asked, watching his friend search the office.

"It is impossible to exactly imitate Irene's style," Sherlock responded, crouching beside the bloodstain on the floor. He scowled in frustration. "It would have been better if I'd seen the scene before they took the body and the chess piece away. Now, what will I have to go with?"

Going to the desk, John flipped through the papers. "Sherlock," he said, picking up an opened envelope. "Look at this."

Glancing over, Sherlock shook his head. "Ah, yes," he said. "The envelope Irene returned the photograph in. Of course Lestrade would have missed that. I will have to ask if they found the actually photograph in their bumbling. I don't see it anywhere in here."

"What are you doing in here?" a woman exclaimed in horror.

Sherlock and John turned as a tall, blond haired woman stared at them from the hallway. "You must be Mr. Johnson's secretary," Sherlock said, crossing to her. "Perhaps you can be of some assistance."

"No one but the police are supposed to be in there," the woman said uneasily.

"Ah, yes," Sherlock said, putting a charming smile on his face. "I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my colleague, Dr. John Watson. Scotland Yard frequently consults in crimes like this. Now, where exactly was the chess piece found? On the desk or by the body?"

Tears welled up in the woman's eyes. "On...on the desk," she answered.

"Ah," Sherlock took one last look around. "That will be all, then. Come along John."

"I'm very sorry for your loss," John said to the woman as he went past her. He hastened to catch up to his friend. His phone buzzed in his pocket. It was text from Lestrade. "They've arrested Irene. Lestrade says your services are no longer needed for the case."

Frowning, Sherlock checked his watch. "It only took them two hours," he said. "Irene must have signed back into her hotel suite. There must not have been any parts available for her."

"Parts?"

"When she feels like it, Irene is an actress," Sherlock explained. "Now, we must go to Scotland Yard."

* * *

Walking at a quick pace, Sherlock led the way through Scotland Yard with John following closely. Crossing their path, Sgt Sally Donovan glanced up from her paperwork and instantly dislike was on her face. "Going somewhere, freak?" she asked, barring their way.

"Irene Adler has been arrested for the murder of Everett Johnson," Sherlock responded. Disbelief crossed the sergeant's face. "I am here to tell you, she didn't do it."

"How exactly do you know that?" Donovan demanded. "You're the one who killed Johnson?" She shook her head, not giving the man a chance to respond. "No, we found Adler's calling card at the scene: one white queen from a chess set. She's the only one with the skills to accomplish that kind of crime."

"I wouldn't say that," Sherlock told her with a slight smile. He glanced down at the paperwork she held and then started moving around her. "She's in room 12 with Lestrade, then? I'll just go in and talk to him."

"Oh, no you don't!" Donovan said, stepping in front of him. "You have no reason to be here, freak."

Looking down at her, Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "What do you see in Anderson?" he asked. "You don't find his presence annoying?" He shook his head and answered his own question. "Obviously not: you spend your free time with him, now that his wife is gone."

Donovan's eyes narrowed. "How do you know that?" she hissed.

"You have on his deodorant again," Sherlock informed her, his tone bored. "Really. It's not that hard to figure out why."

Looking mutinous, Donovan stepped aside. "The day that Lestrade arrests you, I will be right there with a camera," she threatened.

With a smile that disappeared moments later, Sherlock headed down the hallway. Offering the furious sergeant an apologetic smile, John quickly followed his friend. Easily, Sherlock found room 12 and opening the door, went in without knocking or announcing himself.

Looking up, Lestrade looked momentarily angered. "Sherlock," he said. "What are you doing here?"

Sitting at the table, Irene Adler had tears running down her cheeks, and she paused mid-sob. "You couldn't keep out of it, could you, Sherlock?" she asked, her tone furious. "I am perfectly capable of getting out of this one, so go back to your flat and wait for a real crime."

"Donovan said you found a white chess queen at the scene," Sherlock said, looking at the detective inspector. "May I see it?"

"Stay out, Sherlock!" Irene snapped, wiping her tears away.

Glancing at the woman, Lestrade hesitated, and then shook his head. "It's down in evidence," he said, getting to his feet. He started for the door. "There's no reason for you to be here. I have this wrapped up."

As the inspector tried to herd Sherlock and John out, Irene heaved a sigh and crossed her arms. "As long as you're here, Sherlock," she called out. "You can try to explain to these idiots that my 'calling card', as I believe someone called it, is an _ivory_ chess queen, not a cheap wooden one."

Sherlock allowed himself to be maneuvered out into the hallway. "Irene's 'calling card', as you and Donovan put it, is an ivory queen," he said as soon as Lestrade firmly shut the door. "Surely, whatever limited research you have done told you that much."

"I'm not arguing that," Lestrade answered him. "I had no alternative but to arrest her. When we heard she'd checked back into the hotel, I got a search warrant and searched it. We found the gun among her things, but there were no prints on it. However, all the evidence points to her."

"Explain," Sherlock ordered.

Sighing, Lestrade frowned. "Everett Johnson had a photo taken from him," he said. "His secretary told us Irene Adler took the photo when she tested the security system. Adler then held onto the photo to get money from him."

Impatiently, Sherlock gestured for him to get on with it. "We found the chess piece on the desk, but nothing seemed to be missing," Lestrade informed them.

Sherlock smiled. "And there is the clue," he said.

Before Lestrade could question that statement, Donovan came up to them. "Adler's bail has been posted and processed," she announced, sending a glare of dislike at Sherlock. She handed over the necessary paperwork. "She's free to go when you're finished questioning her."

"Mycroft," Sherlock muttered.

Shaking his head, Lestrade opened the door. "I have no more questions, Miss Adler," he said to his suspect. "Someone posted your bail, so you're free to go. You're not allowed to leave London. I will need to talk to you later on."

Raising her eyebrows, Irene sat up straighter. "Mycroft," she grumbled. She directed her annoyance at Sherlock. "Is this the only way I can get your attention? Why can't either of you let me handle this? Is that to much to ask? You two certainly wanted nothing to do with me yesterday."

"Wait. You know her?" Donovan demanded.

Shoving away from the table, Irene stood up. "Of course he knows me," she said. "Don't worry I know the drill. I assure you, I will be at your every command, Detective Inspector."

She came to the door and then paused. She snapped her fingers. "I knew I would remember that scent," she exclaimed. "Why are you wearing a man's deodorant?" she asked the sergeant, sounding genuinely puzzled. The sergeant flushed, becoming flustered. Comprehension crossed Irene's face. "Oh, I see. I'll get the story from Sherlock later then."

Starting to hum, Irene walked down the hallway. Looking oddly amused by the exchange, Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "Good day, Lestrade," he said. "I have a killer to catch."

* * *

John and Sherlock caught up to Irene down on the street. "You need my help," Sherlock said, coming up beside her.

"Why are you so quick to think that?" Irene demanded, raising her hand to hail a cab. She had stopped humming, and looked ready to hit someone. "And why, exactly, are you so sure that I didn't commit the crime? I could very well have done what that bumbling inspector suggested: planted the wooden queen to make it look like a set up."

Startled, John glanced at his companion. "I know you, Irene," Sherlock told her, unruffled. "If you had committed the murder, you would have been much more imaginative." Irene smiled at that. "Mycroft arranged for you to be set free. He knows you are innocent…of murder at least."

"I may not be the world's only consulting detective, but I'm not an idiot like the rest of the world either. Or have you forgotten that?"

"You have managed to get yourself into a rather tight mess," Sherlock pointed out, raising his hand. A cab pulled up to the curb. Annoyance on her face, Irene turned to face him. "You don't have to accept my help, but I will solve this crime."

"You're going to solve it?" Irene echoed with a laugh. Sherlock opened the cab door and crawled in. Irene scrambled in after him, leaving John to take the last seat. "It is my business, Sherlock, my area of expertise. Someone has slandered me, and I want to be the one who catches them."

Sherlock looked at her steadily. "You're not thinking clearly," he told her. He leaned up to the cabby. "221B Baker Street."

Tensing, Irene glared at him. "You must have made a few enemies in your line of work," John said, trying to prevent further hostility. "Can you think of any specific one who would be capable of setting you up like this?"

Taking a deep breath, Irene turned to him. "I have many enemies," she admitted. She sent a mocking look at Sherlock. "Almost as many as Sherlock, I imagine. But none of them could possibly be clever enough to pull off a crime like this."

"Then, you've underestimated someone," Sherlock told her.

* * *

Still looking annoyed, Irene followed Sherlock and John into the foyer of 221B Baker Street. "Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock called out. He barely glanced at Irene as he said to her, "If someone is trying to get revenge, you shouldn't be alone. You'll stay here."

"And if I disagree?" Irene challenged.

"You won't," Sherlock responded as Mrs. Hudson came hurrying from the back. "Ah, Mrs. Hudson. You remember Irene. She's going to be staying with us for awhile. I expect John and I will be going out again, and I will need you to keep Irene company while we're gone."

Narrowing her eyes, Irene glared at the tall man. "Miss Adler!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed. "Why, I never thought to see you here!"

"Mrs. Hudson!" Irene exclaimed, suddenly bright and charming. She reached out her hands and grasped Mrs. Hudson's. "Didn't I tell you to call me Irene? It's so good to see you again! It's been far too long since Florida! You're looking well. Has Sherlock been a good renter?"

Smiling, Mrs. Hudson hugged the young woman. Sherlock headed upstairs, unwinding his scarf from around his neck. "You're far too skinny," the land lady admonished, sternly. "You and Sherlock both need to eat! I'll get you some tea."

"We'd appreciate that, Mrs. Hudson," John told her.

"Mind, I'm not your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson told him, firmly.

As soon as the land lady had hurried to the back, Irene's smile faded. "Do you ever feel the urge to hit him?" she asked John, jerking her head towards the stairs. "Because if he tries to order me around just one more time, I swear I will not be held responsible for what I do."

"At times," John admitted. "But most of the times he's right."

Irene nodded. "That's what makes it so much more annoying," she responded, smiling wryly. "It could be worse though." John shot her a puzzled look as he put his foot on the first step. "Mycroft could be here too."

"If you're done complaining, will the two of you join me?" Sherlock's voice came from the flat upstairs.

John led the way up. "So, what is the first thing we're going to do?" he asked, trying to straighten things as he went in the flat. He frowned at the papers lying on the floor, and tried to kick them out of the way. He paused as he spotted dish. "Why are there fingers under the coffee table? How long have they been there?"

"It's an experiment; leave them be," Sherlock said, sprawled on the couch. His fingertips pressed together, he was staring up at the ceiling. "Irene, if you please, list off all your recent clients and what you have been doing. Don't leave any details out."

The woman was looking around. "What did you do with the skull?" she demanded. "I brought that all the way from India for you."

"Mrs. Hudson took it. Now, begin."

Crossing her arms, Irene dropped into a chair. "What, all of them?" she asked. "Why just the recent ones? For all we know, it could be someone I've angered in the past."

"True, it could be any of your enemies," Sherlock agreed, closing his eyes. "I won't know unless you tell me. I need facts, details! Start at the most recent and work your way backwards."

Sighing, Irene made herself comfortable. She glanced over to where John was still trying to clean the flat up a bit and said, "You may want to have seat, John. This may take some time." A smirk appeared on her face. "You want details, Sherlock? Fine. I'll give you details!"


	3. Part 3

Yawning, John glanced at his watch. It was late afternoon and what was left of Mrs. Hudson's tea sat on top of all the papers on the coffee table. At that moment, Irene hesitated in her recitation. For the first time, Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at her sharply. "I suppose you already know the details about my first client," she said, sounding uncertain.

"Carl Bennett, former banker, arrested for having endangered species stuffed in his office," Sherlock responded, his tone matter-of-fact. He swung himself upright. "Yes, I remember, Irene. It's not something I'm likely forget, when someone takes over my case."

Irene bristled. "You wouldn't have solved it," she retorted. "You never would have made the connection that the money he was taking from the bank was going into those creepy animals. How would you figure it out? You never even went in his office."

Interested for the first time, John sat up straighter. "You're taking us off subject," Sherlock said dismissively. "So that makes twelve suspects."

"Twelve?" John repeated, disappointed not to be getting to the bottom of the pair's antagonism. "How do you get that number from all she's just said?"

Even Irene looked at him pityingly. "It has to be someone who's been watching her," Sherlock explained, managing not to sound impatient. "But also, someone who's in London. That alone widely narrows the list. Then, there are the ones who have a solid reason to want to damage her reputation."

"Then there's the fact that it had to of been a woman," Irene said. "So, where do you plan on starting?"

"Really?" John asked, looking at her. "Why a woman?"

Shaking his head, Sherlock jumped to his feet. "We know what we're talking about," Sherlock told him. "Now, you and I are going out. Irene, you will stay here, where you can't get into anymore trouble. Look up where the twelve women are currently living and what they're doing now."

Grey eyes narrowed, Irene stared at him. "Fine," she said, grabbing the nearest laptop, which happened to be John's. "Just don't expect me to have any food ready for you when you get back. Like Mrs. Hudson said 'I'm not your housekeeper, dear'."

Sherlock smiled briefly as he got his coat and scarf. "Don't wait up for us."

Hastily, John followed his flat mate out. "Where are we going?" he asked,

"Everett Johnson said something when we met him," Sherlock responded, glancing over his shoulder. "Do you remember? He said he'd heard about what Irene was really like. I can't believe I overlooked it. It could be the key to solving his murder."

"I don't understand," John said.

"Someone was spreading a rumor about Irene," Sherlock explained, hurrying out to the street. "We find who it is, we'll find the person trying to ruin Irene. To do that, we need to talk to his secretary again."

* * *

Dabbing a tissue at the corner of her eyes, Amelia Bennett walked out of the company building. She gave a start as she was confronted by Sherlock and John under a street lamp. "Can I help you?" she asked, her voice trembling. She frowned. "Wait. You're the two who were in… Mr. Johnson's office."

"We know you were having an affair with your boss, Miss Bennett," Sherlock informed her bluntly. Taking a step back, Amelia stared at him in horror. "He met with my colleague and I to locate a certain photograph. At the time he mentioned he'd heard rumors about Irene Adler."

"Yes," the secretary responded, sounding startled. "Everett had received a series of anonymous e-mails and phone calls, detailing that woman's past dealings. That's when he became nervous about the photograph she'd taken."

"Did you ever hear who was on the phone?" Sherlock demanded.

Amelia nodded her head quickly. "Once," she answered. "This morning, actually. The voice was muffled, but it was definitely a woman's voice. She sounded threatening, if you know what I mean. Everett thought I was imagining things, but I didn't like it."

"Threatening how?" John asked sympathetically.

"Like if Everett didn't listen, he would regret it," Amelia explained vaguely. She ran her fingers through her short hair. "It's hard to describe. It was just a feeling I had."

"Can you tell us anything else about this anonymous tipster?" Sherlock asked.

The woman bit her lip thoughtfully and then shook her head. "Honestly, it sounded exactly like Irene Adler," she said. A bitter look crossed her face. "I wouldn't put it past that woman to make those calls just to let Everett know she was serious. I hope that Irene Adler gets locked up for the rest of her life!"

Without another word, Sherlock turned and walked away. "Again, I'm sorry for your loss," John said. He hurried to catch up to Sherlock, leaving the secretary staring after them. "Did you learn what you wanted?"

"Nothing I hadn't already theorized," Sherlock told him. There was a rare smile on his face. "This woman is being unusually clever in this. This case is turning out more interesting than I'd imagined."

"I don't think Irene finds it very amusing," John pointed out. Glancing at him, Sherlock made no reply. "So, you don't like her because she solved your case?"

"It's a little more involved than that," Sherlock told him snappishly. "But, yes, she took over my case."

They walked down the block some. "Tell me about it?" John asked.

"No."

* * *

The cab ride after that was long and silent. Back at the flat, the building was equally quiet when Sherlock and John arrived. Irene was fast asleep on the couch. Her right hand rested on the laptop which lay on its side beside the couch. A paper with a list of addresses was next to the laptop.

Kneeling down, Sherlock snatched up the paper and scanned it. "Six," he muttered. "Only six are still in London."

"That should make it easier, right?" John asked, keeping his voice down. He pulled a blanket out from under the couch and draped it over the sleeping woman. When he turned around, he was met with the sight of Sherlock sitting with his knees pulled up, the laptop close to his face. "What are you doing?"

"I received a new message in code the other day," Sherlock informed him, his eyes on the screen. "I told you. I posted it on my website. There have been some clever guesses, but only one seems to be on the right track. I seem have more visitors to my site since you started writing on your blog."

"Isn't that a good thing?" John retorted. "Aren't you going to get started talking to those six women?"

"Oh, you can if you want," Sherlock replied absently. He held out the list. "I don't want to exclude Irene from this part of the game. She'd be very upset if I even tried. But I doubt she'll yell at you."

Taking the paper, John hesitated, glancing at Irene. He thought about the scared usher at the concert hall and slowly shook his head. "I'm not that stupid," he said, putting the paper down. Sherlock smiled. "I'll get something for dinner. Are you eating?"

"Mmm, yes, while you're at it."

Irene's phone buzzed on the coffee table. Her hand flopping on top of the phone, Irene lifted her head and opened her eyes. She blinked once and then dropped the phone. She rolled over and pulled the blanket over her head.

Instantly, Sherlock put aside the computer and was on his feet. He snatched up the phone. "What are you doing?" John demanded, his tone horrified. His flat mate didn't answer, scrolling through the messages on the phone. "That's Irene's! You just can't read her personal messages."

"She shouldn't leave her phone lying around if she wants to hide something from me," Sherlock responded. "Interesting."

He put the phone back and returned to his chair and the computer. "What?" John asked, his curiosity piqued.

"She's getting anonymous texts from the same source as my coded e-mails," Sherlock informed him. "That's what she meant when she said she wanted to talk about the messages on my website."

He said no more. John waited for a few minutes and then, shaking his head in bewilderment, he went to the kitchen.

* * *

The next day came. Sherlock, John, and Irene took a taxi to the closest address. "What's the story for this one again?" John asked as they approached Angela's tea shop.

"Oh, two years ago, I successful cracked a home security system," Irene explained succinctly. She smiled as she thought about it. "It was one of my most triumphant cases. Mr. West hired me to ensure his family heirlooms were safe. As always I made sure he was going to be gone. But, he didn't mention it to his wife. I managed to get in and out with his prize Ming vase without her knowing."

"Congratulations," John said. "Why would Mrs. West want to get revenge?"

"Well, she had told her husband she was visiting family, when instead she was meeting…a friend at her home," Irene informed him. "They're divorced now."

Sherlock entered the shop first. "One moment!" a bright cheerful voice called from the back. A heavy set brunette came out a few seconds later. "What can I do for you today? We specialize in every sort of tea from around the world. Just name it and we've got it."

"It's not her," Sherlock and Irene said at the same time. They looked at each other with annoyance.

"Do you remember this lady?" John asked the confused shop owner, gesturing to Irene.

Sherlock turned and left the shop without another word. Frowning, Angela stared at Irene, who was looking pointedly at her watch, for a moment. "No," she finally said. "I can't say that I do. Why? Should I?"

The woman's friendly tone had shifted to something close to aggression. "Oh, it's that sister of mine!" Irene told her, sounding frustrated. John looked at her with surprise. "She found some perfectly wonderful tea, but will she tell me where she got it? No! She looks so much like me, I'd hoped a tea shop would recognize me."

"Oh, of course," Angela said sympathetically. "I'm afraid I can't help you."

"Thank you for your time," Irene told her with a long suffering sigh. She walked out of the shop with John. Sherlock was already getting into a cab. "I hate it when he does that! Sherlock! Are we slowing you down?"

"Yes!" came Sherlock's reply. "I won't solve this crime if you have to act out a scene everywhere we go."

"It's all about you, isn't it!" Irene spat, scrambling after him. "May I remind you it's me who is accused of this crime?"

John hesitated to follow. "This is going to be a long day," he muttered as he moved to get in.

* * *

The trio went all over London. By the time that they had found the fourth woman, a former manager turned florist, it was mid-afternoon. Of the four women, only one had recognized Irene. Instead of resentment, the former politician went so far as to thank Irene for forcing her into a more satisfying career.

Sherlock had lapsed into brooding silence, staring out at the passing buildings. Irene received a text and started to hum a song from a musical John couldn't identify. "If you want to go rehearse, we can drop you off at the theater," Sherlock snapped, breaking his silence. "I'm sure it would be a better use of your time."

"And have you miss out on my singing?" Irene exclaimed, her tone mocking. "Why would I do something like that? Am I somehow bothering the world's only consulting detective?"

"You prove a point," Sherlock commented. "You see, John? Brilliance needs an audience."

Smiling, Irene snapped her phone shut. "Brilliance?" she repeated. "You flatter me!" She glanced at him, becoming very serious. She bit her lip and then said, "I believe I need to do some more research. There has to be something we are missing in this whole thing."

"Then go back to the flat," Sherlock told her. The cab pulled up in front of their next destination. "John and I can handle this from here."

Irene stayed put as the two men got out. "See you later!" she said cheerfully, before pulling the door closed.

"She's up to something, isn't she?" John asked as the cab pulled away.

"No," Sherlock answered, matter of factly. "That text she received was from a director, who needs her to fill in for the leading lady. Irene can never resist playing Christine from the Phantom of the Opera, not even to prove she can solve the crime." He gave a short laugh. "She has also claimed that the phantom reminds her of me."

John blinked as he thought about it. "I can't see it," he said, keeping step beside.

"Neither can anyone else," Sherlock responded, pushing the door of the club open.

Two women were setting the chairs down, preparing for the evening. John went up to the bar as Sherlock examined the room. A husky man stared at John suspiciously. "We're looking for Emma Martin. Is she here?" John asked, keeping his tone polite.

"I'm Emma Martin," one of the waitresses said, coming over. Her blue eyes stared at them defiantly. She tossed her towel over her shoulder and put her hands on her hips. "Can I help you, gentlemen?"

"You are the Emma Martin who was found guilty of smuggling antiquities into London two years ago?" Sherlock asked, taking charge of the situation.

The woman's eyes narrowed. "Yeah, but I served my sentence," she replied. "Why do you want me?"  
"Irene Adler provided the evidence that put you in jail," Sherlock stated.

Emma Martin scowled. "Yeah, she did," she spat, her tone venomous. "And I'd hired her to test my security system. That witch, and I'm being polite calling her that, was recommended as the best. I practically paid her to break in and send me to jail! If I ever get near her again, she will regret it!"

"Did you know she was back in London?"

"Is she?" Emma Martin said, her tone going from bitter to practically purring with delight. "I'm going to have to look her up."

John glanced from her to Sherlock in alarm. "You won't go anywhere near Irene Adler," Sherlock told the woman calmly, though there was a steely note to his voice. "You have just threatened Miss Adler in our presence. Should any harm actually come to her, you will be the first subject. I will make sure the police know what you said."

With that, Sherlock turned his back on her and walked out. When John glanced over his shoulder just before going out the door, he saw Emma Martin glaring at them. "Is she the one?" he asked Sherlock as they reached the street.

"Obviously not," Sherlock answered. "She's bitter enough to try though."

Instead of hailing a cab, they set off on foot for their last interview. "You basically just threatened that woman in return," John commented, glancing at Sherlock from the corner of his eye. "But you don't seem to get on with Irene. Why should her safety matter?"

"I do not want to talk about Irene," Sherlock told him sharply. He was silent for a moment and then said, "Think, John! I just informed Martin that Irene was in London; therefore if she had gone after Irene, it would be my fault. Irene and Mycroft would never forget it."

"Ok," John said slowly. "And what does their opinion matter?"

"Shut up," Sherlock said.


	4. Part 4

The last woman remembered nothing about Irene. Sherlock and John caught a cab to Baker Street. When they got out of the cab-and John paid yet again-, Sherlock said, "Mycroft's here. Let's go get Chinese."

Glancing around the street, John finally spotted the black car sitting by the curb. The sound of a woman shouting came from their flat. "Irene sounds like she's going to kill him!" he exclaimed, hurrying for the door. Sighing in resignation, Sherlock followed at a more sedate pace while John tried to get up to the flat as fast as he could.

Just before John opened the door, something shattered inside. Horrified, John pushed the door open. Mycroft Holmes sat with his back to the door. Irene stood in the middle of the room, her hands on her hips, glaring at Mycroft. The pieces of a teacup were smashed on the floor next to the chair where Mycroft sat.

"Come in, Dr. Watson," Mycroft invited, without turning. "I'm sure Irene will control her temper now."

Flinging her hands up in the air, Irene spun and walked to the window. "Did you learn anything on your expedition, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked. "Was it really necessary for you to go all over town?"

"I fail to see how that concerns you, Mycroft," Sherlock responded, going past John to enter the flat. He sat down in a chair across from his brother. "Irene, how was your rehearsal? I assume, you will be busy with that production for as long as you're here?"

The look Irene cast over her shoulder was furious. "No," she said. "Due to the impending scandal surrounding my name, the director didn't want to have me anywhere near his show. Whoever spread those rumors to Everett Johnson has still been at it."

"When you insist on tiptoeing the line between a criminal or a respected career, it is to be expected," Mycroft told her. He turned his attention back to Sherlock. "Anything that involves you or Irene, is very much my business. As this particular case involves you both, I can only give it my full attention."

"I am doing fine without you," Sherlock informed him. "Still on that diet, I see."

Annoyed, Mycroft stared at him. Sherlock steadily stared back. John looked between the two uneasily. "Oh, will the two of you just grow up?" Irene demanded, turning around. She headed for the door, jerking her coat out from behind Sherlock as she passed by. "I'm going for a walk."

"I'll go with you," John volunteered, taking a step after her.

"No," Irene responded sharply. She took a deep breath and offered an apologetic smile. "Sorry, John. I just need to be alone for a little bit."

She slammed the door shut behind her. "She hasn't changed much," Mycroft commented breaking the silence that followed the young woman's exit. "Sherlock, you do know that you need the not inconsiderable help I can give if we are going to get Irene out of this predicament."

Not responding, Sherlock picked up his violin. "Well, then," Mycroft said, getting to his feet. "I need to get back to the office. When you and Irene decide to be reasonable, you know how to contact me. Remind Irene that she needs to consult my legal help."

"I'll mention it to her," John told him when Sherlock again said nothing. He waited until Mycroft had left the flat and then commented, "You, Mycroft, and Irene have the strange ability to annoy each other in the shortest amount of time."

"Irene will be back soon," Sherlock told him. "She shouldn't have gone. We have to go over her clients again."

* * *

Turning the corner, Irene stopped muttering about know it all consulting detectives and over bearing government officials. She heaved a sigh as she slipped her bare hands into her pockets. "There has to be something I'm not seeing," she said, out loud. "But what?"

A quarreling father and daughter crossed her path. Pausing, Irene watched with a frown. "Of course!" she exclaimed. "I am an idiot not to have seen it! And Sherlock didn't either!"

Laughing, she pulled her phone out of her pocket and turned around. Her fingers began the message as she headed back to the flat. A hand came down on her shoulder. "Miss Adler," Amelia Bennett said as Irene looked up. "I was hoping to find you out here."

"What can I do for you?" Irene asked, conversationally. She tried to relax her tense muscles. "I don't think we were ever formally introduced, were we?"

"No, but there's time enough for that later, Amelia told her, smiling strangely. "My father is looking forward to seeing you again, Miss Adler. He's told me so much about you."

Looking down at where the woman had a tight grip on her arm, Irene sucked in her breath. A slender syringe, much like those used by diabetics, was sticking out of her arm. Her phone fell from her fingers and her knees buckled under her. The only reason she stayed upright was because Amelia caught her.

"There, there," the blond woman cooed. Quickly losing focus, Irene frowned slightly at that, and then realized the woman was acting. "Excuse me, sir! Can you help my friend into my car? I'm afraid she's had some rather startling news and is not herself."

A helpful man came over and put his arm around Irene's waist. He supported her to the waiting car. "No," Irene managed to mummer, before being deposited in the back of a waiting car. Unable to keep herself upright, she slipped down and was sprawled across the seat.

After thanking the man, Amelia got behind the wheel. "Just close your eyes, Miss Adler," she called back. "There's nothing you can do now."

* * *

Standing by the window, John looked down at the darkening street. Behind him, Sherlock was starting to get more and more irritated. "She should have come back by now," Sherlock said, texting furiously. "Why is she not answering? Mycroft must have mentioned her last boyfriend for her to be this mad."

"Her last boyfriend?" John repeated, turning around. "Why would that make her mad?"

"Godfrey Norton was an extremely dull person," Sherlock answered, tossing his phone down in frustration. "A lawyer, as a matter of fact. Mycroft warned Irene that he would be boring, but she refused to listen. She broke up with him about…six months ago."

John mulled it over for a few moments. "Since when does your brother offer dating advice?" he finally asked, striving to lighten the atmosphere. "It's a bit of an odd hobby for a government official, isn't it?"

"When it comes to Irene, Mycroft cannot help himself," Sherlock replied, his tone bored.

A tap on the door announced Mrs. Hudson's presence. "Sherlock, have a look at this," she said, holding out her hand to show a cell phone. "I found it on the street just now, just around the corner. It looks familiar to me, but all these phones look alike."

Grabbing his own phone, Sherlock began another text. John walked over and took it from the land lady. "It does look familiar, doesn't it," he commented, examining it. It buzzed in his hand and the display showed: Sherlock. "Sherlock, who did you just text?"

"Irene, who else?" Sherlock snapped.

"This is her phone," John informed him, looking over. "You've sent her…24 messages in the past half hour."

Instantly, Sherlock was out of his chair and across the room. He grabbed the phone. "Mrs. Hudson, where exactly did you find this?" he demanded.

"Just around the corner, dear," Mrs. Hudson said patiently though there was a note of worry in her voice. "I was coming back from some errands and there it was! Right by the curb. I thought it looked familiar so I picked it up. Is it really Irene's?"

"Quick, John, write this down," Sherlock said. Scrambling, John located a piece of paper and pen. "'Case solved. Clue: staring eyes.' Oh, the rest is gibberish!" Frowning, Sherlock started to pace. "She figured it out. Why would she put 'staring eyes'? What does it mean?"

"Someone watching her?" John suggested.

"Is Irene all right?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "Oh, she hasn't gone after a criminal alone, has she? She's so impetuous like you Sherlock!"

"Both of you shut up and let me think!" Sherlock ordered sharply. He took three more steps and then spun around. "Of course! Oh, you are clever sometimes Irene! John, look up Carl Bennett. I imagine he will have a taxidermy shop of some sort."

Quickly, John grabbed the computer and typed it in. "What does it mean?" he asked.

"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock asked, grabbing his coat and scarf. "The eyes of a stuffed animal stares. Carl Bennett was convicted of embezzlement because he put the money into stuffed endangered animals! Of course he would have a score to settle with Irene!"

John frowned as he stared at the screen. "He owns a shop now, like you said," he said. "But I thought you and Irene said it was a woman."

"It was!" Sherlock responded. "His daughter, Amelia Bennett, was Johnson's secretary, the one he was having an affair with. Call Lestrade and have him meet us at the shop. Tell him we've found the real murderer and he's about to kill another person."

Dialing the number, John stumbled after his flat mate. "Don't worry, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock called back as he went out the front door. "We will find Irene!"

"Aren't you going to call a cab?" John asked, seeing his friend start across the street.

"Not enough time!" Sherlock responded over his shoulder. "It's faster on foot. Come on, John!"

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, after going through alleys, over fences, and across rooftops, John and Sherlock ended up in front of a tiny little shop in the middle of a block. The sign read Bennett's Taxidermy. The light coming from within was the only light, besides the street lamps, in the block.

"So, what's the plan?" John asked, trying to get his breath back.

"You go in and distract them," Sherlock told him succinctly. "Use what little imagination you have!"

Thinking hard, John crossed the street and went into the shop. A little bell on the door announced his arrival. No one was in sight, so John took the opportunity to look around. Ever inch of the wall space was covered with animals. "Hello?" he called out. "Anyone in?"

A door slammed nearby. An older man with graying hair came from the back, looking flustered. "Can I help you?" he asked.

"Yes, I saw you were still open and just came in," John said, trying to come up with a convincing story. "I'm going out of town to visit a friend. He collects stuff like this, and I'd like to take him something unusual. Do you have anything to suggest?"

Glancing over his shoulder, Carl Bennett visibly hesitated. "Let me show you a few things," he said.

"Am I interrupting something?" John asked.

"Well, I was in the middle of a new project, but it can wait," Bennett quickly assured him. He came out from behind the counter as the bell on the door jingled once again. "I'm sorry, sir. I'll be with you in a few moments."

"I don't mind waiting," Sherlock said, walking to the counter.

John determinedly kept his attention on the shopkeeper as he followed Bennett over to one wall. As Bennett talked about the uniqueness of a bird, John glanced back and wasn't surprised to find that there was no sign of Sherlock.

* * *

Moving quickly and silently, Sherlock went down the narrow hallway. Along the way, he opened two doors, one of which led to a small closet filled with the tools of the taxidermy trade and the other led into a different part of the building. At the end of the hallway, Sherlock was confronted with a closed door.

Grasping the knob, he turned it and easily pushed it open. A single fluorescent light shone in the workshop, hanging above a large table. On the table, lay Irene. Sherlock cautiously entered the room and hurried to the table. "Irene," he said, leaning over her. "Irene!"

There was no response, but when Sherlock placed his fingers on her neck, he felt her heartbeat. Quickly, he lifted her up and turned. He reached the hallway and stopped. Amelia Bennett stared at him from the other hallway, her face twisting with instant rage.

"You," she breathed, moving to block the hallway. A half mad smile appeared on her face. "I should have known you'd come. _He_ said you would if Adler was really your client. You're too late, though. There's nothing you can do for her now."

"Move aside," Sherlock ordered.

Amelia dropped the small leather pouch she was carrying. In her hand was a small scalpel. "I've waited too long for the chance to destroy her like she destroyed my family," she told him, walking slowly towards him. "_He_ told me to do it. I won't disappoint him!"

"Who?" Sherlock asked, stepping back. "Your father?"

The woman laughed shrilly. "My father?" she repeated. "No! My father is too weak to think of revenge. He doesn't know what I've got going on. He won't ever find out and you won't have the chance t tell anyone!"

She swung at him, the scalpel gleaming in the air. "John!" Sherlock shouted, lunging back into the workshop.

Blue eyes gleaming with madness, Amelia followed him into the room. "You both will make a fine addition to his collection!" she laughed. "My father taught me everything he knows about preserving things! What will make people so different from animals?"

Lifting his foot, Sherlock kicked a shelf over. Dodging the falling items, Amelia snarled at him, "You can't keep away from me! Not if you try to keep her away too!"

At that moment, John burst into the workshop. "Sherlock!" he exclaimed, jumping forward. He grabbed Amelia's wrist from behind and twisted the deadly scalpel out of her hand. He jerked the woman around and pushed her against the wall.

The sound of sirens could now be heard. Laughing and sobbing, Amelia sank to her knees. "He'll kill you all!" she repeated over and over.

"John, go get an ambulance," Sherlock ordered. John cast an uncertain look at Amelia. "She won't try anything."

Kicking the scalpel into a corner, John nodded and hurried to the hallway, where Sherlock heard him talking quickly to the police. There was a slight laugh and Sherlock looked down to see Irene smiling faintly. "I always knew you cared," she whispered, her voice slightly slurred.

Carl Bennett staggered into the room. "Amelia!" he exclaimed, pitifully. He went to her, only to be pushed away. "What have you done?"

"Will someone explain what's going on here?" Lestrade demanded coming in.

* * *

"So, it wasn't really one of your old clients," John said to Irene the next day.

Sitting cross-legged in the chair, Irene shook her head. "No, it wasn't," she replied. She rubbed the back of her hand where an IV had been. "Of course, there is the fact that it had to be a woman. That's what threw us both off. I'm only glad I solved it before Sherlock."

On the couch, Sherlock threw her an irritated look. "No, I am never going to let this one go, Sherlock," Irene informed him, cheerfully.

"Don't you have a flight to catch?" Sherlock asked in answer.

"Oh, not yet. Why? Are you in a hurry to get rid of me again?"

John leaned against Irene's chair. "There's one thing I don't understand," he said, attempting to interrupt their spat. It worked; both looked at him. "Amelia Bennett kept repeating 'he'll kill you all'. Who exactly was she talking about? Her father?"

"Ask Irene," Sherlock said.

Looking down, Irene heaved a sigh. "Why must you put it on me, Sherlock?" she demanded. "And why were you looking through my messages in the first place?" She held up her hand. "Never mind. I don't want to know. You've had as much contact with him as I have, if not more!"

"Well, someone tell me!" John said.

Irene and Sherlock stared at each other for a moment longer. "Oh, very well!" Irene said. "Since Sherlock is being so rude, I will explain. Four weeks ago, I was approached to take my profession into a more...illegal level. Naturally, I refused and I began getting strange coded texts."

"Naturally you refused?" John asked. "You didn't even think about it?"

"Of course not!" Irene exclaimed. "How long do you think it would have been before Sherlock and Mycroft came after me? I am not an idiot, despite what Sherlock may try to tell you."

"I assume to tried to trace who ultimately made you the offer," Sherlock said, his tone thoughtful.

Nodding, Irene straightened up in her seat and put her feet on the floor. "All I got was a single letter," she said. " 'M'. Then, when I was checking out your website, I came across the anonymous notes you were getting, Sherlock, and the code of the first one matched my texts."

"And you decided to come to London to find out what I knew."

Again, the woman nodded. "What do you know?" she asked.

"You've read John's account of the serial suicides?" Sherlock asked. Irene smiled. "Before he died the cabby gave me the name of my 'fan'. Moriarty. My attempts to locate this man have not come up with anything sound, though I haven't given it my full attention yet."

Snorting, Irene got to her feet. "When you do find him, please don't face him alone," she requested, her tone intense and pleading. John looked at her in surprise. "He's obviously a dangerous man and I don't know what I'd do if anything happened to you."

"Nothing will happen to me, Irene," Sherlock assured her, his tone warm and gentle. "I have John to look out for me, and of course, Mycroft has us under constant surveillance."

Laughing, Irene moved to get her coat. "Oh, go ahead and ask her," Sherlock said, turning his attention to his computer. Irene looked at John curiously. "He's been trying to reign in his curiosity this whole time, but will no doubt try to interrogate me the moment you leave."

"Oh?" Irene asked. "What do you want to know, John?"

Looking between them, John hesitated. "How do you know each other?" he asked bluntly. "You know everything about each other and you both constantly try to annoy the other."

"Oh, so when you said Sherlock hadn't told you anything about me, you really were serious, weren't you?" Irene said, her tone sympathetic but extremely amused. She looked at Sherlock, who said nothing. "And you've been wondering this whole time if I was an old flame of his?"

"Something along those lines, yes," John admitted.

"Well, I can tell you that that assumption is completely wrong!" Irene told him, winding her scarf around her neck. "But I am not going to be Sherlock's mouth. He can explain it all to you. I have a plane to catch, and I must stop by Mycroft's to thank him for reinstating my passport."

John went to get the door for her. Irene paused beside the consulting detective. Leaning down, she kissed his cheek. "Until we meet again, Sherlock Holmes," she said, affection in her tone. "Try not to get John killed, will you? He's too nice a person for that to happen."

"Don't terrorize America too much," Sherlock advised, keeping his eyes on what he was reading.

Smiling, Irene walked to the door. "See you around, John," she said as she went passed him. She started down the stairs.

"Wait!" John said. Irene looked back at him. "Why do you think Sherlock is like the Phantom of the Opera?"

Irene laughed. "That does so annoy him, doesn't it?" she responded. "I say he is like the mysterious Phantom because in some ways he is. Both are geniuses that no one appreciates, both have a love for music, and both have no respect for social standings which makes them seem like jerks. But mostly I say it to annoy him."

John nodded. He watched her leave the building and then went back into the flat. "So?" he prompted. He sighed when Sherlock gave him a blank look. "Are you going to explain how you know her, or not?"

"What kind of relationship do you think we have?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, she just said she wasn't your old girlfriend," John answered, thinking hard. "And then there's the fact that Mycroft knows her too. You both seem to be on close terms, despite the fact that you all seem to take delight in annoying each other." He ran a hand through his hair "I don't know. A family friend?"

Sherlock laughed. "Close, but wrong," he said. "Irene Adler happens to be my cousin. Her mum and my mum were sisters. When her parents were killed in an automobile accident, Irene came to live with my family."

"Oh." John said, contemplating that. "That must have been...interesting."

"She made a good assistant when it came to experiments," Sherlock told him. "Mycroft didn't appreciate what we did to his things when he was home." He chuckled. "That's where Irene got skilled at taking things." He paused. "Oh, what's she taken this time?"

"Wait. You think she took something again?"

"Did you not just spend time with her? Of course she did!" Sherlock responded, springing up. He started flinging things around. "Come on, John! Search everything! This is just the sort of thing she would do! Take something and then leave London to avoid reprisal!"

"Well, if it makes you feel better, she's on her way to visit Mycroft," John told him. "You can still catch up to her if you want."

Sherlock glared at him. "Without knowing what she took? What kind of revenge could I get then?" he demanded. He paused and then started laughing, collapsing into a chair. "She's visiting Mycroft! Oh, this will be good!"  
"What?" John asked uneasily. "She's going to take something from him too? I know: 'of course she is'!"

Sherlock's phone buzzed then on the coffee table. Picking it up, Sherlock glanced at the text. "Lestrade has something for us," he announced, sounding disappointed. "A murder. He doesn't say anything else. This will be too easy. Not many patch problems have come along."

"That's a good thing," John told him. "Do you know what those things will eventually do to you?"

"Helps me...think..." Sherlock responded, his voice fading. Jumping up again, he rushed out of the room. Moments later came his outraged shout, "She took my nicotine patches!"

* * *

**A/N: And my tale is complete. Hope you enjoyed it!**


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